


Make Yourself Useful

by butterscotching



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Banter, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Roughhousing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1433731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterscotching/pseuds/butterscotching
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lazy, comfortable, somewhat hilarious time set after the end of 1x03. Because no one believes they weren't walking away to do anything but put their hands on each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Yourself Useful

**Author's Note:**

> Not that there haven't been a bunch of fics set after 1x03, but who can deny that it's convenient? I wanted to write something that matches my image of the 'ship, something meandering and super comfortable and mutual and without many strings and shifting power dynamics and-well, you get it. So if that's your thing too, enjoy. Thanks to the two who kept encouraging me to post this!

"Good news, my friend. You'll live." 

Porthos rolls his eyes where Aramis can't see, grunting in response. Aramis' fingers are warm in the cool air of the room, even if they are currently probing around the long wound the axe had made. The skin there is still hot, tender and stinging from the memory of stitches ripped out while attempting to do the same to Bonnaire's throat. 

"And, due to the incredible work of your surgeon, it won't be a scar half as nasty as you deserve.” From behind him comes Aramis' voice again, this time time coupled with the lightest brushes of his thumb over the newer stitches he'd put in before their return to Paris. 

It still smarts, and Porthos winces with another unhappy grunt, leaning forward. He knows if he were to simply stand up from the edge of the bed and walk away, Aramis would not touch him again. But it is his bed, and he is very tired, and Aramis should be the one to get up. "Did I not just tell you five minutes ago to mind it? Still sore."

"Well, I can't imagine why that is-"

"Oi! Nursemaid, make yourself useful, won't you?" Rolling his eyes a second time, Porthos straightens and taps his opposite shoulder. "'Bout halfway down. I got an itch." 

He doesn't want to talk about his wound; already he's tired of being teased about the ripped stitches. He doesn't want to talk about Bonnaire either. He'd been content to try and forget about him as soon as he'd vanished from view hours before. In fact, he's been very happy since then. There's been wine, there's been food, there's been laughter and light. The only reason he's let Aramis into his lodgings instead of crawling straight to bed is his own inability to grow eyes in the back of his head and see his wound for himself. It was not for want of more ridicule. 

But a back scratching is a good start to an apology. 

Aramis' nails go to work, first at the area he's told him to, then fanning out to the rest of his back. They uncover and do away with itches Porthos didn't know he had, and the sensation they make as they skip over old scars knit together by the same hand is delightful. Porthos lets his eyes fall shut, head drooping with a low noise of appreciation. It's the first gentle touch he's felt in days. 

Soon his back is pleasantly warm, Aramis' hands smoothing over the gooseflesh he's raised. His fingers linger here and there, working at knots under the skin where he finds them, but Porthos doesn't mind. In fact, he's rather grateful as muscle after muscle uncoils, each leaving him more relaxed than the last. 

As Aramis' touch finally retreats, Porthos thinks that yes, he could sleep very well now. 

Another touch comes before he can open his eyes and announce his thoughts, this one softer: Aramis' lips against his good shoulder. It's followed by another, this time to the side of his neck, chased by the scrape of his beard. Porthos smiles, eyes opening as he reaches up to cup the side of Aramis’ face. He should have expected this, perhaps.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“No.” Aramis’ answer sounds right next to his ear, low and scratchy, accompanied by a gust of hot breath. The hairs at the back of Porthos’ neck leap to attention, causing him to surpress another shudder. He grins, tongue catching between his teeth. “Not at all. Are you?” 

Porthos takes no time to consider. “Not sure yet,” he says, and turns his head to catch Aramis’ mouth with his own. 

It’s a delicate affair, getting turned around enough to face Aramis on the bed completely without upsetting his shoulder, but he manages. Aramis is smiling when he can finally see him, looking rather satisfied with himself. Or maybe the situation he’s inspired. Porthos doesn’t care, and only laughs when Aramis hooks a hand behind his neck to draw them together again.

He winds his hands into Aramis’ hair as he kisses him, fingers slipping through the silky strands and tightening. Aramis smiles against his mouth and returns his hands to Porthos’ bare skin, sending a set of nails ghosting up his side. This time, Porthos makes no great effort to hide his shiver. It only spurs him on, pulling gently against the grip he has on Aramis’ hair to tilt his chin up, allowing Porthos to kiss at his neck. There is so little of it exposed for him to put his lips to, most of it blocked by the leather of Aramis’ uniform, but Porthos only finds his fingers fumbling clumsily at the fastenings. He finds himself in no rush, content to listen every little noise that sounds in Aramis’ throat and hitch of his breath. His teeth catch the lobe of Aramis’ ear, earning him a soft groan that makes his pulse race. 

Aramis’ hands brush his own away, and he is much more adept at unclothing himself. Porthos leans back long enough for the other man to shrug out of his jacket and suspenders, and in short order they peel Aramis’ underblouse over his head. Now Aramis is barechested, hair mussed around his face like some ridiculous halo. He reaches for Porthos again and Porthos is happy to oblige, pushing him backwards to the bed. There’s a twinge of protest in his shoulder, but he ignores it, head dipping to put his mouth on Aramis again.

Aramis’ skin is salty and maybe not the cleanest, but Porthos has no protests. He has missed this, both of them too busy with the business of soldiering to have shared this sort of closeness in weeks. His sucks at the rise of Aramis’ collarbone, then presses his teeth to it to hear that magnificent groan again. Aramis is not a loud lover, and every sound Porthos draws out of him is a treat that traces a hot line down his belly. Suddenly there are hands in his hair, and he feels Aramis’ hips move, rolling against the press of Porthos’ thigh.

“No, you do not appear to be tired at all,” Aramis murmurs, making Porthos laugh against his chest. 

He pulls back enough to look between them, noticing the mottled green-purple-yellow blooming down Aramis’ side for the first time. “What happened here?” he asks, pads of his fingers ghosting close enough to make Aramis shudder beneath him. 

“A chain. Goes all the way ‘round, I’m afraid. Nasty business. The very same battle you came to meet your axe.”

The corners of Porthos’ mouth turn down, head tilting back and forth as he considers the injury. It’s about as unsurprising as his own. They are soldiers, not gods. They bruise and bleed when struck. Sometimes, they even like to compare cuts and scrapes after battles. They could have had a lot of fun with this bruise, Porthos thinks. There’s a spot that almost appears to be a horse. Still, it does look like it might be rather painful. He smiles suddenly, gaze cutting back to Aramis’ face.

“So then, I imagine it would hurt if I did this.” Tongue sliding between his teeth again, he raises an open hand and brings it down, intent on giving the bruise a smack. Turnabout is fair play, after all. 

But quick as a cat, Aramis’ hands are there to knock his away before he can, laughing over the wince it causes his tender muscles. He grabs Porthos’ hand, and for a moment looks as if he’s going to shove it back at him. A silent beat passes between them, Porthos’ hand still caught, watching Aramis stare at him in the dim light with dark, glassy eyes. Aramis smiles, that same self-satsified look returning as he moves Porthos’ hand towards the laces of his trousers, and Porthos feels his mouth move to mirror the expression. 

“Why don’t you, as you say, make yourself useful?” 

Porthos’ brows raise, and he pauses, making a show of considering this suggestion. “Suppose I could.” He cups Aramis through the fabric, watching his lover bite his bottom lip. His fingers trace the hardness he feels there, and there’s a flex of muscle somewhere at Aramis’ knee that Porthos imagines is his toes curling in his boots. “Wouldn’t trouble me none.”

Aramis’ reply starts with a laugh, but Porthos hears the short, breathless quality to it. “A gentleman you are, through and through.” 

“I do try,” Porthos nods, face almost settling to something solemn before a smile breaks though. He gives Aramis’ stomach a little pat, then turns his attention to the laces in earnest.

He does away with them at an even pace, fingers slipping beneath the fabric equally as slow. As hot as Aramis’ skin is against his hand, and as hard as his own blood beats at his temples and cock, there is still little ugency in his movements. There’s almost a laziness to the way he tugs at the hem of Aramis’ trousers to pull them down a few inches, brows lifting at the hiss that comes from him when his skin meets the cool air of the room. His fingers return, circling Aramis’ cock loosely as they drag up and down his shaft. 

The same flex of muscle happens at the corner of Porthos’ vision - Aramis’ toes are curling again - and it turns his smile into a smirk. Stretched out beneath him, Aramis’ eyes have slipped shut and he is sucking at his bottom lip, one hand tucked beneath his head and the other worrying at the sheets. It’s a beautiful sight, if not an expectant one. Porthos has half a mind to slap his ribs anyways, but the growing ache of his own desire drives him on to more pleasant action. 

Slowly, so as not have to pause his hand too much, Porthos edges backwards to give himself enough room. He bends over Aramis, mouth opening to take him in...

And suddenly, Porthos sees stars. 

The lance of pain that shoots through him makes him bolt upright again, face twisting with a strangled noise as he tries to put the air back in his lungs. Aramis’ eyes shoot open in alarm, halfway to a sit before Porthos can protest. 

“Did you tear them again?” Aramis asks, but it sounds more like an angry demand. Porthos shoots him a glare, batting the hands reaching for him away and rubbing at his shoulder gently. 

“M’fine, just twisted the wrong way.” He plants a palm in the middle of Aramis’ chest and shoves, grimly satisfied when Aramis hits the mattress with an arching wince. “And that’s no way to treat someone who just hurt themselves trying to do you a favour.” 

A snort comes from Aramis in response, but no more. He’s clearly agitated now, aroused and without release and looking a little mean for the minor pain in his back. It makes Porthos smile again. He readjusts himself, hooking a hand under Aramis’ knee and leaning forward to put his weight on his good hand. Perhaps they could do something like this, if he just thrusts slowly and...

They both groan, but it is a sound completely devoid of pleasure. 

Porthos untangles himself from Aramis’ legs and lowers himself to the bed on his good side, momentarily looking as cross as Aramis. His shoulder stings and so does his pride, but worse is his arousal. Aramis rolls to face him, and for a moment they only glare at each other. Porthos can only imagine Aramis is doing the same thing he is: mentally blaming the other. If Aramis hadn’t poked at his shoulder prior, if Porthos hadn’t shoved him back into the bed a few seconds ago-

“Oh, hell,” Porthos mumbles, and bursts into laughter. It’s a bizarre situation, but uniquely the type of trouble they have found themselves in over and over again, on the battlefield and off. The longer he laughs, the less sour Aramis looks, until he too looks vaguely amused. Then his eyebrows lift, and he reaches to touch Porthos’ chest. 

“Wait.” He nudges him further and further until Porthos is flat on his back. Rolling somewhat clumsily to his knees, he goes about stuffing Porthos’ pillows under his back. “I’ve an idea.” 

“An idea? Oh no.” Porthos lets himself be moved around, lifting himself up to accomadate the pillows as they’re placed. It is uncomfortable, as all pressure against the stitches is, but not unbearably so. “Please don’t hurt yourself, you’re already injured.”

Aramis does not reply outright, settling himself between Porthos’ knees with a look that does not brook further teasing. Anticipation wells in Porthos’ stomach as Aramis’ reaches for his laces, letting out a slow breath when cool air hits his skin as it has Aramis’ only minutes before. His eyes search Aramis’ face as the other man comes back in to kiss him, wondering what the big idea is. Aramis kisses him once, twice, then sucks at Porthos’ lower lip. Porthos follows the movement, lifting to chase Aramis’ mouth, but Aramis’ hand has slipped between them and is now sliding over him, and Porthos never quite makes it. Instead, he lets out a wordless cry and lets his head fall back to the pillow. 

Whatever flagging his arousal had suffered at the pain in his shoulder vanishes, and heat rushes over him again in full force. Now it is his turn to be agitated, fingers winding in the sheets as Aramis purposely leans too far back to be caught. There’s the look, again, the same damned pleased look, but Porthos can’t fault him for it. He makes this face when Aramis acts out, too. At one time or another, they all make that face. He scratches at his own bed, eyes slipping shut with another heavy breath as Aramis adjusts himself again, those fine, thin fingers leaving his skin momentarily.

And very shortly, Porthos understands his idea. Aramis thrusts and their cocks slide together, underside to underside. Porthos briefly sees stars again, but this time they are magnificent spots of light that leave him breathless for the rush of pleasure that races up his spine. He lets out a quiet sound that’s almost an ‘oh’ and Aramis laughs, a humming sound he doesn’t open his mouth for. 

He moves again, and Porthos lets his own mouth fall open with a groan. 

Now it is Aramis’ turn to take his time, hips moving in a slow rhythm, pausing between each thrust to take a breath. They cannot touch each other as much as they’d like for fear of aggravating injuries worse than they are, but Porthos lets his hands explore where they can, flitting over Aramis’ neck and chest. Each new thrust brings some other new reaction from him, whether it be a groan or a sigh or just a heavy push of breath at the sensations Aramis is giving him. The minutes stretch long and the rest of the world evaporates. The room is still cool aside from the heat they create, and sweat stings coldly where it breaks out over his forehead and chest. Aramis is quiet save for his panting, but Porthos thinks he can picture his face.

His eyes slit open to find Aramis looking straight at him, eyes half-lidded and lips parted, the faintest mark tension wrinkling a furrow between his brows. Just as imagined. They both regard each other, realising they’re staring. Porthos laughs first, low and husky and cut short by another rock of Aramis’ hips. His head tips back against the pillows, his own toes curling down in their boots. That’s when Aramis laughs. 

Porthos makes it through two more torturous thrusts before the tide in his veins threatens to overwhelm him. “Aramis,” he says, the name a hoarse plea on his tongue as he reaches for him again.

This time, Aramis lets himself be caught. 

The angle is all wrong to slide against each other when he brings Aramis against him, their mouths coming together sloppily, but Porthos doesn’t are. He wants his warmth and weight, wants his mouth on him. Aramis is happy to oblige, head tilting to nudge Porthos’ face until he can get at his neck, a line of sharp, wet kisses dotting the trail there. His hand finds their way between them again, circling them both, pumping away at an awkward staccato that nevertheless sends Porthos sailing towards the edge. Porthos lets out a breathless curse and clutches at Aramis’ shoulder with blunt nails as his muscles tense, breaths short and ragged. Then there are teeth at his collarbone, in the same place he had his own pressed to Aramis’, and that is enough. Porthos’ eyes shut tight as he comes, moaning Aramis’ name with it. 

They do not come together. They rarely do. Instead, Aramis continues to kiss him as he rides it out, each gentler than the last up the column of his throat. His hand slows until it is stopped altogether and then gone. “Shh,” he murmurs against Porthos’ mouth, kissing there and then the rest of his face. The scar above and below his eye, his cheek, his forehead. Porthos is still shaking, his breathing uneven, but his muscles have gone slack. Save for the shoulder, of course, which aches dully to the tune of his heartbeat. 

“Aramis, Aramis, Aramis,” Porthos answers out of a stubborn sort of spite and runs his hands over his lover’s face. His thumbs graze over Aramis’ swollen lips. He’s grinning. It’s the after-sex euphoria kicking in, one that does not make him sleepy or droopy immediately. He feels more playful now than he has in days, happy, and ready to do something ridiculous like punch a wall for fun. But he cannot do that, won’t, not with Aramis still stretched out on top of him, still in need of his own release. 

“I’ve a mind to make myself useful after all.” 

Porthos’ voice is still hoarse and rumbling, enough to make Aramis’ swallow when he says it. He licks a wet stripe down his good palm and reaches between them, taking Aramis’ cock in hand. His hand does not take off at the same gallop that Aramis’ had, only keeping the same slow pace from before. He plans to tease Aramis’ orgasm out of him slowly, pausing every so often to circle his thumb over the head of Aramis’ shaft.

Stuck holding himself up, there is not much Aramis can do besides let Porthos watch him come undone. He knows it too, and Porthos can’t decide if the way Aramis tosses his head and bites his lip, face tilting away with eyes shut as he swallows back another moan is shyness or exhibition. He is only sure he wants to encourage more of it. Before long, Aramis’ breathing is too laboured to hold back anything besides hair. His head droops, eyes still closed as his hips begin to rock against Porthos’ hand without shame or censor. One groan spills from his lips, then another. Porthos can see the muscles in Aramis’ arms and shoulders begin to shake. 

“Aramis,” he rasps, his hand quickening. “Look at me.” 

Aramis does, and Porthos thinks if he wasn’t already spent, he would be right then. Aramis’ face is shining, a few pieces of sweat-damped hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead. His lips are still swollen from his own biting them as much as Porthos’ kisses, eyes so dark they look black in the dim light. It’s an intense look, an intimate look. Lust has a human face in him. For a moment, Porthos almost forgets his own goals. His hand moves again, and the whole vision before him shudders. Aramis’ head dips and they kiss once more, still thrusting into Porthos’ hand. 

He moans into Porthos’ mouth when he comes. Porthos swallows it with one of his own and licks the roof of his lover’s mouth. 

It takes several long minutes before Aramis seems willing to move from where he’s folded himself atop of Porthos, but Porthos doesn’t rush him. Aramis does not share the same post-coital senses. His shoulder is angrier than before with the added weight on him, but he ignores it in favour of tracing circles over Aramis’ back with the fingers of his clean hand. The skin is dotted with its own scars, still flushed and warm to the touch. He puts down a little more pressure, scratching a little. 

“Don’t do that, you’ll make the whole thing itch.” As if it were his cue, Aramis squirms backwards, sitting up. Porthos sighs and rolls his eyes, watching Aramis try to comb his hair back with his hands. His hair is even more ridiculous now, half wet and half dry, some curling and some sticking out straight at odd angles. 

“That’s what the hat’s for, I reckon.” The corners of his mouth turn down with a small shrug that’s worth the pain it causes. “Lost cause, really.” 

Aramis ignores him and leans over the side of the bed, collecting his jacket and underblouse. He balls the white fabric up and uses it as a rag to clean himself up, starting with his belly and chest and moving to his fingers. When he’s done, he begins to do the same to Porthos. 

Porthos wants to protest, thinks he should, but now that the moment has passed he is back to being bone-tired. He stretches out his legs as Aramis cleans his fingers for him, finding everything aches a little, albeit pleasantly. “You tired now, th-” A second glance at the fabric makes him pause. “That’s not your shirt, it’s mine.” 

“I know,” Aramis answers with a grin, sounding much too cheery for Porthos’ taste. Still quick as a cat, he’s off the bed and pulling up his trousers before Porthos can think to lunge after him. 

Porthos settles for throwing the shirt at him even though it misses, then works at slowly sitting up. He pulls off a boot with a tired sigh and stares at it, considering maybe throwing that at Aramis too. In the end, he’s too tired to chuck either of them. After that he stands to divest himself of the rest of the clothes that still hang from him, opposite of what Aramis does at the other side of the bed. He is just crawling back onto the mattress, wrapping the covers around him as he settles on his stomach with a pillow beneath his arms as Aramis is stuffing his hat on his head. 

Porthos’ eyes fall shut with the knowledge that Aramis doesn’t need to be shown out, nor does he need any lengthy goodbyes. Threads of sleep grab at him almost immediately, but he’s still conscious enough to hear Aramis’ boots thud towards his bed instead of away from it. The creak of leather that sounds after tells him all he needs to know. 

“Your needlework is sound, nursemaid. Touch it again and so help all of us,” he rumbles without opening his eyes, but the threat behind the words is no less present.

He hears Aramis’ snort and feels a touch to the side of his face, a soft brush of fingers that runs from forehead to chin. When Aramis’ touch retreats, so do his footsteps. 

Porthos sighs softly, and is asleep before the door can even close.


End file.
